


"If you had a sister and a dog..."

by Antiago



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, top!Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antiago/pseuds/Antiago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pitch is a vicious grouch with severe honesty issues. He gets laid anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"If you had a sister and a dog..."

“I hate you, Frost.” Pitch turns his head, hissing directly into Jack's ear. “I. _Hate._ You.”

_A weight between his legs. Lips against his neck. A touch of teeth, while chill fingers trace a line between his sternum and stomach._

And where did he learn that? Where did such an incurable fool learn _anything_ about this game...  
And how did he stay so clueless about the reasons for playing it?

Jack's movements slow. Then they stop. There's no more ice, no more burning cold tracing across Pitch's skin. Only one cool fingertip remains centered between his lower ribs. The contact feels like something hanging from a cobweb, and Jack's voice is a breeze ready to blow, a pair of scissors prepared to cut.

“You want me to leave?”

He means it. Pitch knows. He's got the hollow, bitter memory lurking right behind his eyes, waiting for a replay. He'd watched the young spirit pick up his staff and leave without looking back, and knew, _knew_ that he wouldn't return.

Until he did. 

Pitch wraps his hand around the back of Jack's neck. An aggressive gesture, not a fond one, black claws pricking pale skin underneath that ridiculous hood, but it also stops the sickeningly naive bastard from straightening up or pulling away.

_Bright blue eyes fixed on him. Never looking through him. Never oblivious._

Pitch chuckles, smooth and easy, while something unnamed and unacknowledged tries to crawl up his throat and choke him. 

“Oh Jack. _Jack._ So naive.” He shifts. The bare skin of his inner slides against the rough texture of Frost's breaches _(still clothed, still invulnerable, while Pitch's black robes have melted away like shadows under sunlight)._ His knee comes to rest against the younger spirit's hip. It's an open invitation. A baited trap. “This and that? Two separate things entirely.”

Frost grips Pitch's wrist, and pulls the hand away from his neck. Pale fingers hold tight, and there's at last a touch of anger on the boy's face. _Or is that hurt?_ Either way, the boy's expression is for a second as hard as the grip around Pitch's wrist, and Pitch can't stop his grin from growing wider. 

_Finally._

Then Frost pauses. Pitch's grin freezes, then twists into a scowl as Jack draws his captured hand to his lips, and kisses the knuckles. “Not for me,” he says.

Pitch hisses, trying to tug his hand back. The gesture is everything he hates. Soppy. Sentimental. It makes his skin crawl, and stirs something sick and restless inside of him. He groans, trying to fit as much disgusted scorn into the sound as any human(oid) voice could possible hope to convey. “Idiot.”

“Yeah?” The fingertip below Pitch's chest traces a circle, patterns of frost fanning out in a stinging spiral. “So who's the one letting this idiot stay, huh? Who's the one,” Frost's hand traces upwards, following the plate of Pitch's breastbone to the hollow of his neck, “letting this idiot touch him?”

_An enemy, fool._

Pitch had laughed inside when Frost kissed him. Laughed and laughed at the lips on his forehead, and the look that asked for more, because desire is a vulnerability Frost wanted _him._ And it isn't so bad, being wanted. Being touched, while he watches and waits for a chance to hurt this idiot. When Pitch does, when he takes Frost's foolish feelings and twists them into something hurtful, something dark, Frost will only have himself to blame. 

But now his scowl intensifies as Frost leans down and kissed the creases on his forehead. Pitch is sure his plan is a good one. Perfect, even. The only thing wrong with it, is that it isn't working. 

He'll mock. He'll ridicule. He'll curse, and hiss, and use his black claws to draw blood. And when he does, Frost just pins his hands to the bed and kisses him, like he's doing now.

Pitch growls. He digs his fingers into the thick sweatshirt (what will happen if he tears it? Will it just fix itself, the way Frost's skin heals, and never scars?) and tries to find the Spirit's ribs with his claws. Frost is quicker. His hands frame Pitch's emaciated chest, slide down over his ribs, and circle to his lower back, his abdomen, the inside of his thigh. Nails drag, but refuse to scratch, even when Pitch knows that his own are penetrating skin and finding blood.

Pitch bucks impatiently. He hasn't asked for this foreplay charade. He'd be happier with pain, anger and teeth in the dark. Instead the lights are on and Frost insists on exploring every part of him, as if what he's seeing (everything...) only becomes real if he touches it, too. 

When he starts to use his tongue, Pitch's shudder is somewhere between disgust, which he strives to convey, and arousal, which he denies with every fiber of his being. Wet and cold leaves a strip from his lower pectoral to his collarbone. Frost stays there, lips pressed to the base of of Pitch's neck. 

Pitch shivers, chest catching as the cold stings home. Cold bodies and sex shouldn't be mentioned in the same sentence. This shouldn't be working. “Chilly. Dead. Bastard.”

“Mmm,” Frost says. He takes Pitch's slightly (mostly) hard cock in hand.  
Not a bad comeback. 

Pitch closes his eyes with a breathy hiss. Then Jack is done marking his throat (possessive gesture, pathetically misplaced!) and straightening up, letting go of him. The winter spirit shrugs out of his hoodie. Pitch sneers. Like he cares? Like Frost's got anything he wants to see, with that ridiculously juvenile body...

..and the surprising play of lean muscle, clearly defined, and rippling all the way down to a tight abdomen...

And the scratches over Frost's ribs, deep and open and completely ignored, as if pain doesn't matter.

Pitch's eyes flicker up, and catch Frost's stare. The boy (still a boy, always a boy, no matter how many centuries pass) is grinning, lopsided and maddening. He's seen too much, and his face is full of something terrible. _Affection._ It burns like sunlight. 

Pitch glowers. He's dimly aware of the blue sweater dropping beside his arm, one bright thing on an expanse of shadowy sheets. He's more aware of Frost reaching to the (black) bedside table, and picking up a (white) bottle of something else Pitch hadn't asked for.

“Turn over?” Frost suggests.

Oh, yes. Brilliant. Face to the sheets and ass in the air for this fool? Not likely. Pitch snorts, and shakes his head. “No. Don't need it.”

Jack goes still for a second. He sets the bottle back on the table.  
 _Good bo-- --wha?!_

Pitch isn't sure how it happens. There's a hand at his hip, and fingers under his shoulder, and next thing he's face-down with a hand under his abdomen and another positioning his legs.

“Thanks,” says Frost politely, as if Pitch had just accommodated a reasonable request, instead of getting man-handled into a position which he'd flatly refused.

“Frost,” Pitch says, turning the name into a long drawn-out growl of pure threat. And as the Nightmare King, he knows how to threaten. His tone implies broken bones and pliers applied to teeth and interesting places to stick extra-sharp icicles. He starts to push himself up, but a hand lands in the center of his back. He's pressed, swearing, back onto the sheets. 

He struggles. Flails. Claws at the bedding and tries to wriggle away. Infuriated to the point of insensibility, he pounds his fist against the bed. “Let. Me. _Up!_ ”

Jack doesn't. He doesn't respond, either. Pitch twists his head and strains to look back, just in time to see Jack hold the bottle in one hand and pull the cap off with his teeth. Then he drops the cap onto the bed. It rolls, and bumps against Pitch's knee. 

Jack finally meets his furious glare. “I'm not taking you dry--” Pitch twitches involuntarily as a hand settles on his ass. He feels the bottle pressing into his cheek. Jack's eyes are still fixed on him. “--But I'll stop. If you don't want this.”

“Let me up.”

“...”

“Frost, I'm warning you!”

“You don't want to?”

“Let me turn over, damn you!”

Jack's eyes shift. His mouth twitches, and his hand stirs against Pitch's ass. Pitch could murder him. He could absolutely murder Frost right now, and consequences be damned. 

“...I can't reach you that way.” 

_Liar!_

“That's ridiculous!”

“No 's not.” Jack objects, eyes wide and way too innocent to be real. “Just let me, ok? It'll feel better this way.”

_This isn't about feeling good you-- you imbecile!_

But Frost is already tipping the bottle. Slick liquid trickles down Pitch's skin (and onto the bed, making a mess, he's sure).

_“You're Jack Frost. You make a mess wherever you go.”  
“In fact, you're doing it right now...”_

The memory bites home just as a slick finger slides into him.

_”Cold and dark.”_  
This wasn't what he had in mind.  
 _(Liar)_

Jack's voice (and Jack's second finger, pressing home) brings Pitch back to the present. “So, I've been wondering...”

_Ugh. No. Whatever it is, no._

“...Why do you look like this?”

Pitch looks back, brows arched, but Jack's eyes are otherwise engaged. “Like what?”

“Y'know.” Jack glances up. “Sexy.” 

_Hah._

“I have other forms, Frost.”

“Yeah? So why look like this?”

Pitch turnes his head away, and stares into the black. Into the black sheets, anyway. He knows the answer, and it isn't a safe area. It's deep and dark and Jack will never. Ever. Be permitted there.

 _Because it's a mistake we make, fool. Fools, every one of us. Because form defines function, and water takes the shape of whatever it fills,* and we couldn't resist it, could we? Becoming like_ them.

Because there's a locket hanging from Pitch's neck, and it never comes off. 

Because...

“Just get on with it, Frost.”

“Sure,” comes the easy answer, and easier chuckle. “Hey. Not complaining. You're beautiful like this.”

Pitch rolls his eyes. _Yes,_ he thinks sarcastically, _you're privilege to a great view of my ass. Lovely, I'm sure._ “Shut up.”

He wants this part done. Now. Or, preferably, five minutes ago. Fingers slide and part and stretch, and he can feel _everything_ , not just the dry burn he'd prefer. It's disgusting and disturbing and when his cock twitches, he wants to die. No. He wants to _kill_.

Four fingers. Pitch clutches at the sheets. He wants to bite, wants to scratch, wants to claw Frost's insufferable face into ribbons, because the moron is still chattering and even if Pitch ignores the words, he can still hear the tone, and it's a constant frustration. Maybe that's why Frost has him positioned like this. Maybe having Pitch try to claw his eyes out during sex has finally gotten old.

The idiot shuts up, finally, and Pitch's eyes fly open wide when he figures out why. There are lips and teeth against his ass, and even with Frost's fingers toying with his insides, the sensation is crystal clear. 

“Why,” he demands through gritted teeth, _”Why_ do you feel the need to do that?”

There's no answer as the seconds drag by, just teeth and tongue. And fingers. And a flush _(angry!)_ rising behind Pitch's dusky skin. When Frost's mouth finally pull free, Pitch knows he's left a mark. Again. Same spot as last time, and darker than ever. 

“Don't matter, does it?” Frost says, a little breathless. “No one else'll see 'em.” His hand pulls free, and grips Pitch's waist. Grips it just a little harder than necessary, as his other hand slides down Pitch's back and takes position on his other hip. “No one else will see... right?”

Pitch, face still turned to the sheets, rolls his eyes. _Oh, certainly. Because you think I'll play this game with... who? Toyman? The eggsucker? The fairy-bird who thinks that a person's most physically attractive attribute is their teeth?_

But there's something pressing against him, rubbing, _teasing,_ and if he can't claw Frost for his impudence, words will have to work.

He chuckles, and crosses his arms under him, drawing on as much composure as he can muster, given the position. Given the _ridiculousness_ of it all, and, the way his body feels tight and wants to shake at every touch.

“Poor boy. You think you're the only one...?” He wants, oh how he wants, to see Jack's expression.  
But he can't risk Jack seeing his.

There's a pause that feels like an eternity. Pitch closes his eyes, fighting the urge to laugh. The hands are tight against his hips, fingers digging in to the point of pain. 

_What now, pup? Will growl? Will you bite?_

All this time, had the secret to breaking Jack's composure, the secret to hurting him, really been this easy? Something twists in Pitch's gut. 

Frost might just leave. Cold, and angry, and silent, back turned and never coming back, never turning around, and maybe looking straight through Pitch next time, if they ever cross paths again. It could end like that. _Will_ end like that if the boy is smart. 

But he isn't. He isn't, because he's here. Because he's too stupid to be afraid, like he should. 

And now he's moving. No words, just one long push. An answer? Maybe. Not one Pitch understands, even though he feels it to the core. 

Pitch's composure stretches. Trembles. Slips. His folded arms come apart and reach for something to hold onto, hands scrabbling over smooth sheets. They bump into something soft, something blue. He claws it to his chest and bites.

It smells like fresh snow. Fresh snow shouldn't smell like anything, but it does. It smells like this.

Jack draws back. Drives forward. Too slow and too controlled, like this isn't costing him anything.

Why is Pitch the one trying not to pant, trying not to _snort_ with his teeth clenched tight in Frost's goddamn sweater? Letting the boy top, yes. That was sensible. That was calculated. Frost wouldn't have played the game otherwise. 

But letting him take control? That has never been part of the plan.  
 _It shouldn't be like this!_

Because something's going wrong. It's been going wrong since Frost first kissed him, perfectly chaste, lips to his forehead with a crooked grin and challenge Pitch accepted, because he knew he could win. That was before Frost threw out all the rules.

Frost shifts, changing angles. Suddenly he's not thrusting anymore, but grinding, an insistent pressure against a spot that has Pitch's claws tearing into his own skin to stop the whine. One cool hand slips from Pitch's hips. It slides beneath him, and starts tracing circles on his abdomen.

Pitch holds out. For about two seconds. 

He spits out a mouthful of sweater, and lets out a curse that's much older than English. He follows it up with Frost's name, hissed out and hateful with an edge of a desperate whine that echoes in his ears and makes him see red. 

He bites the sweater again, furiously swearing vengeance. Frost has no right to be like this! He was supposed to be clumsy, overwhelmed, insecure, and hopelessly inexperienced. _Not_ \-- Frost drew back, giving a moment's relief from the constant assault-- _like_ \-- he came back with a vengeance, and a merciless pressure-- _this!_

At the very least he's supposed to be angry. Spiteful. He's supposed to gloat. He's supposed to fight on territory that Pitch understands.

Pitch hides his face in light blue cloth, his face full of heat and the smell of snow. At least Frost can't see his expression. Maybe this position does have something to recommend it. 

Until it doesn't, because Frost is pulling out, and tugging at his shoulder, and turning him over onto his back. Now there's no sweater and no sheets and nothing between them to hide the flush on Pitch's face, or the precum dribbling down his cock. Pitch tries to glare. And knows it isn't working.

He struggles to push himself up on his elbows, and then regrets it. He can see everything from here. Frost, pushing his legs apart. Positioning himself again, the tip of his cock nudging home.

And worse, so much worse, Pitch can see the light in the spirit's eyes when Frost looks at him. It's a light Pitch has tried so hard to steal time and time again, and now it's blazing like the memories of a hundred brilliant stars. It burns. 

Pitch reaches for a handhold, for leverage to drag himself away from the inhumanly strong grip on his waist. If he struggles now, if he screams, then Frost... 

...will stop. 

He doesn't struggle. He doesn't scream, not even with his eyes. He just grips the black headboard with all his strength until his ashen knuckles blanch with the strain as Frost pushes into him again.

At some point, Pitch closes his eyes. He isn't aware of it until there's a gentle touch as his eyelids, and Frost is telling him to open them.

Pitch hisses... something. Old words. Some prehistoric version of _“Fuck you, no.”_

The touch goes away. A hand closes over his cock, and _yesyes, need that, there--_

He feels the boundaries giving away, and hears himself make another sound that he's going to carefully delete from his memory. He's close, so close, when Frost moves just right, and pushes him right to the edge.

Then Frost's hand tightens, right at the base. 

Pitch's eyes fly open, a scream of rage clawing out of his chest. It dies in his throat. Frost is smiling. It's the scariest smile Pitch has ever seen outside of a mirror.

“So,” says Frost, still smiling brightly, “about those hickies. And about who else is going to see them.” He leans a little closer, still buried in Pitch but not moving. His thumb caresses Pitch's tip, while the rest of his hand keeps a tight hold. “Why don't you tell me about that...?”

\- - -

“I hate you,” Pitch mutters.

“Uh-huh,” says Frost, absently. He's retrieved the blanket from the floor, and is busily trying to wrap it around his victim. Which is to say, Pitch, who would really like to hurt him, but can't right now, because anything more energetic than breathing just doesn't seem worth it. 

He has to settle for: “Stop it.”

Frost doesn't. 

“We're done,” Pitch growls. “Leave.”

Frost doesn't do that either. Instead, he finishes tucking the edge of the blanket under Pitch's hip, and pulls him close. Pitch finds himself cradled to the spirit's chest like some human brat's favorite stuffed animal. Pitch grumbles and hisses and spits our curses, but Jack doesn't listen. He never does. 

The sex is optional, and strictly consensual. The cuddling isn't. Pitch grumbles into Jack's neck, shifting to find a comfortable place for his arms, which are trapped against his chest inside the blanket. Frost's hands move too. One rests against the back of his neck. The other wraps under his ribs to rest against the small of his back, and drag him closer. 

“...Hate you,” Pitch says again, capping off a long list of mumbled complaints and curses. Frost sighs. His breath stirs Pitch's hair.

“Love you,” he says.

Pitch hates him for it.

\--Hates him for sharp touches that never go all the way to pain. The teasing that never turns malicious. Hates him for the implacable gentleness that's tougher than any hate Pitch has ever encountered. 

Mostly, he hates himself for wondering if he'll wake up alone, and hoping that he won't.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No awesome frost hoodies or sexy Nightmare Kings were harmed very much at all in the making of this fanfic.
> 
> Second Disclaimer: _“Because form defines function, and water takes the shape of whatever it fills.”_ \--That's pure Terry Pratchett, and probably some kind of plagiarism, so he gets full credit for that line. All other characters and concepts belong to Rotg's creators, except for the sexual ones which they probably don't want. Heh. Heheh. Hah. 
> 
> Third Disclaimer: OhGodIDon'tKnowHowToWriteI'mSooooooorrrrrry! I tried. Don't hate me? ;_;
> 
> Oh, and I really love comments, a lot. Even if they're just "That one sentence was awkward and pulled me right out of the story" or "You really shouldn't have put a comma there" or "Present tense? WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING!"


End file.
